


Feeding What You Can't Control

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Near Death Experiences, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vampires, guess who wrote nb Roman, probably tbh, time for another installment of This Sure Is a Piece of Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-07-24 21:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: Dean can’t help but wonder if he just got paid $1000 for his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bloodhyr; First Timer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984626) by [TheRoarOfAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoarOfAtlas/pseuds/TheRoarOfAtlas). 



It’s not necessarily a surprise, but Dean’s still not sure how he ended up at this point.

He guesses he can blame everything that lead him to need cash like oxygen, every greedy booker and stickler landlord and, to some extent, all the booze, drugs, and hookers he’s paid for. He can blame the deathmatches, can blame the blood, can blame the adrenaline rush that always goes a little too far south of his stomach.

He has to have Seth help him set up the app. It’s no secret he can’t work a phone to save his life. It takes approximately four hours to fill out the profile, to answer the questionnaires, to complete the medical forms. He thinks this is the most time he’s ever spent staring at his phone screen trying to type with clumsy fingers.

It takes a long time for him to get a match- probably over a month. Long enough for him to forget he even has the app on his phone. It makes sense- after all, he  _ is _ a druggie, a smoker, a street dog. He can’t imagine his blood seems particularly appetizing.

The profile of the man who matched him is scarce. He’s a mountain of a man, listed as 6’8 on his profile. It doesn’t seem too unlikely, based on the singular photo of him. There’s almost no information other than his height, prefered blood type, and name. 

Baron.

They text back and forth for a while, discussing how the feeding will go. It feels only slightly less shadier than half the drug deals Dean’s been a part of. To be fair though, once Dean sees the payment of $1000, he kind of just blows through it, eyes glazed over the details. He barely remembers agreeing.

They meet up a week later at Baron’s place. He looks almost like a stereotypical vampire; large dark eyes, tall, pale skin, tattoos wrapped around him, long hair hanging around his waist. His fangs are startlingly visible even as he speaks, as he ushers Dean into his home. His hands are cold.

He doesn’t ask Dean anything, doesn’t say much before he shoves Dean onto the couch. Dean lands roughly, and he can’t really react before Baron settles in his lap and bites him.

Dean doesn’t mind the position terribly; Baron isn’t hard on the eyes, so he isn’t complaining, and his hands grip Dean’s shoulders nicely, but he does mind the hard pain that comes from Baron’s blunt fangs dig into his skin. 

He feels a little high, as Baron feeds, like he’s floating. Things very quickly go ass over teakettle, though, as he soon begins to feel woozy. His heart rate increases, and Baron swallows greedily. Dean can’t help but wonder if he just got paid $1000 for his life.

He’s barely aware of arguing, of yelling, of someone yanking Baron off of him. He feels like he’s floating, head filled with cotton. He can feel his blood gushing from his neck, skin ripped open by too-sharp but not sharp enough teeth.

Dean can’t breathe. He’s trying, but his lungs are like a bottle with a hole in the side, leaking too much to fill enough. His vision is going black, dark around the edges, little spots he recognizes from the few times he’s been choked out with a belt. His arms feel like lead, and when he tries to lift his hand, all he manages are a few twitchy fingers. 

When he goes unconscious, it’s not a snap occurence. It’s less like a tsunami and more like a tidal wave. It’s slow, easy, like slipping under after fighting to tread water for so long. 

He’s out before he knows it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a break from writing the Small Town AU 2: Electric Boogaloo to finally finish this since it's been sitting in my drafts for god knows how long

When Dean wakes up, it isn’t in his own bed.

Well. He doesn’t  _ have  _ a bed, not really. His bed, the one he sleeps in, isn’t  _ his bed _ , it’s the pullout of Seth’s couch that has springs that always dig into his skin, no matter how he lays. 

The bed he wakes up in is  _ soft _ , pillowy under his body, almost soft to the point of discomfort. He feels like he’s going to fall through it, like a cloud. The sheets are white when he looks at them, practically blinding in their cleanness. They feel like silk.

The room is bright, the curtains drawn open but the blinds still closed. It hurts, makes his head pound that much harder. He feels like his brain is trying to escape his skull. 

When he goes to stand, the room goes sideways.

He lands with a  _ thud _ , body crashing painfully to the floor. Pain shoots up his wrist when he catches himself, makes the nausea rolling in his stomach that much worse. He groans, loud, pitiful, and lays there staring at the hardwood.

He hears footsteps, distantly, like they’re coming from underwater. He doesn’t react, doesn’t think he can without either losing his lunch or passing out completely. He’s still staring blankly at the floor when a pair of shoes enter his line of sight.

If the bed wasn’t enough to let him know he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong, the shoes solidify it. They’re probably more expensive than everything Dean’s ever owned, black patent leather polished to an almost mirror shine. The laces are straight and tight, and a delicate pattern is detailed across the toe in a deep, barely visible blue. 

Dean’s eyes track up from the shoes on their own volition, looking as high as he can without raising his head. He looks at the sharp crease of the person’s dress pants, the crisp fold of the hem against their well-muscled calf, and knows he’s out of his element.

The person bends and grabs Dean by the shoulders, carefully hauling him up to his feet. They’re  _ broad _ , well-muscled under a burgundy button-up, and there’s long hair starting to tickle Dean’s neck. The arm that wraps around his waist to support him has an intricate tattoo wrapped down to the wrist, broken only by a thick silver watch.

They don’t say anything, just start walking out of the room. Dean’s powerless, has no choice but to go along with them. He can’t move on his own, can’t support his weight, and even being half-carried, half-dragged like this is making his stomach roll and his head go fuzzy. He wants to fight back, knows how vulnerable he is right now, but he’s helpless. Trapped.

He tries to stay conscious, tries to catalog what route they take, what doors they pass, but all the movement goes straight to his head. He’s out before they make it down the hall.

When he comes to,  _ again _ , he’s laid out on a leather couch. The material feels buttery under his half-numb palms, cool against his heated skin. He groans, trying to force himself in a seated position. He fights through the dizziness and nausea, fights against the fact that his arms feel like they’re made of lead, dead weight against his sides.

He’s most of the way upright when someone enters the room.

They’re. Well. Quite frankly, they’re the most gorgeous person Dean’s ever seen. Long, silky black hair tumbles over their shoulders, contrasting the rich, deep red of their button up. The top few buttons are undone, revealing the edge of a sinuous tattoo that follows the curve of their pec. The same tattoo is shown around their arm, flowing from the rolled-up sleeves that sit tight against their forearms. Black slacks hug well-muscled thighs.

And that’s not even counting their  _ face. _ They look like some sort of tragic god, the hero in a Greek epic that tries and tries and tries only to fail at the last moment. Full lips framed by a neat goatee, dark brown eyes that seem to hold the stars, a strong nose, a jaw sharp enough to cut. 

Dean’s pretty sure he’s drooling.

They take a careful few steps into the room, careful and quiet, like they’re trying to approach a wild animal. “How are you feeling?” They ask when they’re within a few feet of Dean. Their voice is deep, sin itself, stirs something primal in the back of Dean’s chest.

Dean blinks a few times. “Like I tried to play chicken with a train and lost.” He groans, slouching down against the arm of the chair. There’s a pillow wedged under his shoulder blades but moving it higher feels like it’ll take more energy than he’s ever possessed. 

It takes a moment for panic to set into Dean’s fuzzy brain. “Where am I? Who are you? What happened?” He asks, voice as frantic as he can manage. Everything in him is screaming at him to move, to run, to fight, to do  _ something _ , but he can barely manage to keep his eyes open. He sinks further into the couch cushions, fighting against the exhaustion bubbling in his throat.

The person sighs and runs a hand through their hair. “I’m Roman Reigns. You were being fed on and he went overboard. You lost… quite a bit of blood. This is my home. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re ok, trying to keep you. Well, trying to keep you alive.” Their expression is almost unreadable.

Dean nods a little. He can’t find the energy to respond, and even if he could, he doubts he’d be able to formulate one through the fog of confusion clouding his mind. He feels cold and heavy and sweaty and he just wants to  _ sleep _ .

His eyes are in the process of rolling back into his skull when a cold, callused hand lands on his cheek.

It isn’t a slap, isn’t anywhere  _ close _ to being aggressive; it’s more of a caress, a thumb tracing the curve of his jaw, the cold just startling enough to keep him awake. His eyelids flutter back open and he makes a half-hearted, instinctual noise of complain in the back of his throat.

Roman is sitting on the edge of the couch, practically cradling Dean’s head in their palm. Their face is still almost unreadable, but there’s something akin to concern there, something like commiseration. 

“I know you just want to sleep, but you need to stay awake. It’s been long enough, so I can get you some water and maybe some light food, if you want.” They offer, voice soft in a way that feels like an insult. 

Dean swallows thickly, dropping the weight of his head into Roman’s hand. “Water would be nice. Don’t know if I could eat.” He lets his eyes droop for a second before opening them again. “How long was I out?”

Roman’s face softens. “It’s been about a day. I gave you a transfusion, but it was a little touch and go for a bit. Your color’s healthy and,” Two strong fingers press against Dean’s throat, over his jugular, “Your pulse feels stronger.”

They stand and carefully withdraw their hand from under Dean’s cheek. He almost groans in protest, missing the cool touch against his heated skin. As they leave the room, footsteps almost silent, Dean forces himself higher up on the couch.

The sunlight streaming through the windows  _ hurts _ like an icepick behind his eye. He curls in on himself, legs drawn to his chest, head hidden between his knees and an arm tossed over. He tries to stifle the dissatisfied groan that builds in his throat, but he doubts he succeeds.

A few moments later, Roman returns with a glass of ice water. Dean’s throat, which has been feeling drier than ever, loses any remaining moisture as he looks at the condensation gathering on the outside of the glass. He tries to take the cup, but all he can manage is a weak shift of his arms.

Roman sits on the coffee table by the couch and carefully raises the glass. There’s a straw sitting against the edge, which they hold steady for Dean to drink from. He gulps down the glass, barely pausing to breathe. His lips brush their fingers a few times but he can’t be bothered to care as the cool water helps with the feverish heat building inside of him.

Roman sets the glass down once he’s done. They rest a hand on Dean’s forehead, almost as if checking his temperature. Dean sighs in relief as their cold skin, still wet with condensation, rests against his. He feels some of the tension leach from his body, practically melting against the sofa.

“C’n I sleep? I just.” Dean heaves a sigh and uses what little strength he has left to push against Roman’s palm. “Can’t.” He groans, eyes slipping shut.

A gentle hand brushes down his jaw to his neck. Fingers linger at his pulse before trailing to the knob of his collarbone. A heavy sigh falls from Roman’s lips. “I’ll keep an eye on you, make sure you’re ok. Get some rest.” The hand doesn’t move, stays resting on Dean’s head even when he tosses onto his side to bury his face in the cushion.

Fingers carefully rubbing his scalp lull him to sleep for the nth time that day.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cherry-mox on Tumblr! Come bug me!  
> Title from Queen for Queen by Motionless in White


End file.
